





















t 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



"^a. 

Shelf 

UNITED states' O l^l^BICA. 


t! 


'X' 



m.:-. , 

>v 

















< 


O'* 

< 



X 


< 





THE CHRISTMAS BOOK 


N 

BY 

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH 

% * 


FULLY ILLUSTRATED BY W. L. TAYLOR, 
EDMUND H. GARRETT, E. H. LUNG REN, AND OTHERS. 




v 


AUG 5 1891 


7 S / 0 


A 




BOSTON 

D. LOTHROP COMPANY 

WASHINGTON STREET OPPOSITE BROMFIELD 




COPYKIGHT, 1891, 

BY 

D. Lothrop Company. 


CONTENTS. 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.” 

CHRISTMAS IN THE CATACOMBS, A. D. 1 76 

THE VISION OF CONSTANTINE, A. D. 3 1 2 

ST. PATRICK AT TARA, A. D. 432 

THE SNOW BIRD 

THE CONVERSION OF THE FRANKS, A. D. 496 .... 

GOOD LUCK 

THE CHRISTMAS CROWNING OF CHARLEMAGNE, A. D. 800 
THE CORONATION OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, A. D. 1066 . 

THE CLOCKS OF KENILWORTH 

AT RUNNYMEDE, A. D. 1213 

“ NO CHRISTMAS ! NO CHRISTMAS ! ” 

“’tWAS CHRISTMAS ON THE DELAWARE” . . . . 

CHRISTMAS EVE AT SANTA FE 

IN THE CABIN OF THE MAYFLOWER, A. D. 1620 

THE CHRISTMAS HYMN OF COLUMBUS IN THE NEW WORLD. 1 49 2 

THE PILGRIMS’ EASTER LILY 


9 

30 

34 

38 

42 

44 

48 

69 

73 

77 

83 

87 

91 

94 

98 

102 

104 




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


“And now let the courtliest knight of all lead thy 


jeweled feet to the banquet hall.” 

Dot 

IV. L. Taylor Frontis. 

II 

Dot has never heard such music before 




The Alto stood looking steadily at Dot 



21 

In the Catacombs, a. d. 176 

LungreJi . 

31 

The Vision of Constantine, a. D. 312 . 


35 

St. Patrick at Tara, A. D. 432 .... 

U 

39 

Clovis at Rheims, A. D. 496 

(( 

45 

“ Molly ” 

L. J. Bridgman 

48 

Mrs. Fayerweather and “ Good Luck ” 

(( 

51 

“Jingle, Jingle, Jingle, Jingle” .... 

(( 

55 

The Christmas crowning of Charlemagne, a. d. 800 

Lungren . 

71 

Coronation of William the Conqueror, a. d. 1066 

(4 

75 

At Runnymede, a. D. 1213 

4C 

85 

“ No Christmas ! no Christmas ! ” — In the seven- 
teenth century ...... 

(( 

89 

Christmas Eve at Santa Fe. — In the sixteenth 

century ..... . . 

£4 

95 

In the cabin of the Mayflower, a. D. 1620 

44 

99 

The First Mayflower 

Edmund H. Garrett . 

1 10 

“ He who makes the Mayflowers to bloom amid 

the snow will care for me ” 

a 

113 

The Monument to Mary Allerton 


117 




HOW DOT HEARD “THE MESSIAH. 


{A Christmas Story,) 


HE church was vast and dim. The air was fras^rant 



^ with pine boughs, and over the golden cross of 
the chancel hung heavy wreaths of box and fir. A 
solitary light shone in front of the organ. 

Little feet were heard on the stairs leading to the 
orchestra. A door in the organ case opened quietly 
and was about to close, when a voice was heard : 

“ Is that you. Dot ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“What makes you come so early It is nearly an 
hour before the rehearsal begins. The little bellows 
room must be a rather lonely place to wait an hour.” 

“ I always come early,” said the boy, timidly. 

“ So I have noticed. Why } ” 

“ Mother thinks it best.” 

“ Come out here, and let me talk with you. I have 
sung in the choir nearly a year, and have hardly had 
a glimpse of you yet. Don’t be bashful ! Why, all 
the music would stop if it were not for you. Dot. Our 


9 


10 


HOW DOT HEARD “THE MESSIAH.’ 


grandest Christmas anthem would break into confusion 
if you were to cease to blow. Come here. I have just 
arrived in the city, and have come to the church 
to wait for the hour, of rehearsal. I want company. 
Come, Dot.” 

The little side door of the organ moved : a shadow 
crept along in the dim light towards the genial-hearted 
Tenor. 

“ Do you like music, Dot.i^” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Is that what makes you come so long before the 
rest } ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ What is it, then } ” 

“ I have a reason — mother would not like to have 
me speak of it.” 

“ Do you sing ? ” 

“ Yes, at home.” 

“ What do you sing? ” 

“ The parts I hear you sing.” 

“ Tenor, then ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Will you sing for me ? ” 

“ Now ? ” 

“ Yes.” 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH. 


“ I will sing, ‘ Hark^ what mean ? ’ ” 

“ Rossini — an adaptation from Ctijus Animam'' The 


boy did not under- 
stand. 

“Well,” said the 

Tenor, “ I beat time 

— now. Dot.” A 

flute-like voice float- 
ed out into the empty 
ediflce, silvery, pure, 
rising and falling 
through all the me- 
lodious measures of 

that almost seraphic 
melody. The Tenor 
leaped to his feet. 

§ 

and stood like one 

entranced. 

He listened. The 
voice fell in wavy 
cadences : 


“ Heavenly Hallelujahs rise^ 

DOT. 


Then it rose clear as a skylark, with the soul of in- 
spiration in it : 

“ Hear them tell that sacred story. 

Hear them chant ” — 


12 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.' 


The Tenor with a nervous motion turned on the 
gas-light 

The boy seemed affrighted, and shrank away towards 
the little door that led to the bellows room. 

“ Boy ! ” 

“ Sir?” 

“ There is a fortune in that voice of yours.” 

“ Thank you, sir.” 

“ What makes you hide behind that bench ? ” 

“ You won’t tell, sir? ” 

“ No ; I will befriend any boy with a voice like thatr 

The boy approached the singer and stood beside him. 

He said not a word, but only looked toward his feet. 

The Tenor’s eyes followed the boy’s. 

He saw it all, but he only said tenderly : “ Dot ! ” 

A chancel door opened. An acolyte came in, bear- 
ing a long gas-lighter : he touched the chandeliers and 
they burst into flame. The cross glimmered upon the 
wall under the Christmas wreaths ; the alabaster font 
revealed its beautiful decorations of calla lilies and 
smilax; the organ glowed with its tall pipes, and carv- 
ings and cherubs. 

The first flash of light in the chancel found Dot 
hidden in his little room with the door fast closed 
behind him. 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.' 


13 


What a strange place it was! A dim light fell 
through the open carvings of the organ case. Great 
wooden pipes towered aloft with black mouths — like 
dragons. Far, far above in the arch was a cherub, 
without a body — a golden face with purple wings. 
Dot had looked at it for hours, and wondered. 

He sat looking at it to-night with a sorrowful face. 
There were other footsteps in the church, sounds of 
light happy voices. 

Presently the bell tinkled. The organist was on his 
bench. Dot grasped the great wooden handle ; it 
moved up and down, up and down, and then the tall 
wooden pipes with the dragon mouths began to thun- 
der around him. Then the chorus burst into a glo- 
rious strain, which Dot the year before had heard the 
organist say was the “ Midnight Mass of the Middle 
Ages ” : 

“ Adeste fidcles 

LcEti triumphantesy 
Venite, 

Venite, 

In Bethlehem ! ” 


The great pipes close at hand ceased to thunder. 
The music seemed to run far away into the distance, 
low, sweet and shadowy. There were sympathetic solos 
and tremulous chords. Then the tempest seemed to 


14 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.” 


come back again, and the luminous arch over the organ 
sent back into the empty church the jubilant chorus : 


Venite adoremus, 

Vejiite adoremusy 
Venite adoremus, 

Dominum." 

After the anthem there were solos. The Tenor sang 
one of them, and Dot tried to listen to it as he moved 
the handle up and down. How sweet it sounded to 
Dot’s ears! It came from a friendly heart — except 
his mother’s it was the only voice that had ever spoken 
a word of sympathy or praise to the poor bellows boy. 

The singers rested, laughed and talked. Dot listened 
as usual in his narrow room. 

“ I came to the church directly from the train,” said 
the Tenor, “and amused myself for a time with Dot. 
A wonderful voice that boy has.” 

“ Dot ? ” said the precentor. 

“ Yes : the boy that blows the organ.” 

“ O, yes 1 I had forgotten. I seldom see him,” said 
the precentor. “Now I think of it, the sexton told me 
some weeks ago that I must get a new organ boy 
another year : he says this one — Dot, you call him ? — 
comes to the church through back alleys, and goes to 
the bellows room as soon as the church is open and 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.’ 


15 


hides there until service time, and that his clothes 
are not decent to be seen in a church on Sunday. 
Next Sunday begins the year — I must see to the 
matter.” 

“ He does his work well ? ” asked the Alto, with a 
touch of sympathy in her voice. 

“ Yes.” 

“Would it not be better to get him some new clothes, 
than to dismiss him ? ” she asked. 

“ No. Charity is charity, and business is business. 
Everything must be first-class here. We cannot have 
ragamuffins creeping into the church to do church 
work. Of course, I should be glad to have the boy 
supplied with clothes. That is another thing. But we 
must have a different person in the bellows box. The 
sexton’s son is bright, dresses well, and I have no doubt 
would be glad of the place. — Now we will sing the 
anthem, ‘ Good-will to menl ” 

The choir and chorus arose. The organist tinkled 
the bell, and bent down on the pedals and keys. There 
was a ripple of music, a succession of short sounds, 
and — silence. 

The organist touched the knob at the side of the 
key-board, and again the bell tinkled. His white hands 
ran over the keys, but there issued no sound. 


1 6 HOW DOT HEARD “THE MESSIAH.” 

He moved nervously from the bench, and opened the 
little door. 

“ Dot ? ” 

No answer. 

“ The boy is sick or faint.” 

The Tenor stepped into the room and brought out a 
limp figure. 

“ Are you sick, Dot ? ” 

“Yes, sir; what will become of mother?” 

“ He heard what you said about dismissing him,” said 
the Alto to the precentor. 

“Yes; but the sexton was right. Look at his shoes 

— why, his toes are sticking through them.” 

“And this bitter weather!” said the Alto, feelingly. 

“ Can you blow. Dot ? ” 

“ No, sir ; it is all dark, sir. I can’t see, sir. I can’t 
but just stand up, sir. You won’t dismiss me, sir? 
mother is lame and poor, sir — paralyzed, sir: that’s 
what they call it — can’t use but one hand, sir.” 

“ This ends the rehearsal,” said the precentor in an 
impatient way. “ Dot, you needn’t come to-morrow, 
nor till I send for you. Here’s a dollar. Dot — charit) 

— Christmas present.” 

One by one the singers went out, the precentor bid- 
ding the sexton have a care that Dot was sent home. 


HOW DOT HEARD “THE MESSIAH.” 1 7 

The Alto and the Tenor lingered. Dot was 
recovering. “ I shall -not hear the music to-morrow. 
I do love it so.” 

“ You poor child, you shall have your Christmas 
music to-morrow, and the best the city affords. Do 
you know where Music Hall is. Dot ? ” 

“ Yes, lady.” 

“ There is to be an oratorio there to-morrow evening: 

— T/ie Messiah. It is the grandest ever composed, and 
no singing in America is equal to it. There is one 
chorus called the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ — it is wonder- 
ful: the man who composed it thought he heard the 
angels singing and saw the Lord of Heaven, when he 
was at work upon it ; and he is to be the first tenor 
singer, and / am to sing the altos — wouldn’t you like 
to go. Dot 1 ” 

“ Yes, lady. Is the man who composed it to be the 
tenor singer — the one who heard the angels singing, 
and thought he saw the Lord ? ” 

“ No, Dot: he is to be the tenor singer.” 

“ /, Dot,” said the Tenor. 

“ I have a ticket for the upper gallery, which I will 
give him,” said the Alto. A friend of mine bought 
it, but I gave her a seat on the floor, and kept this for 

— well, for Dot.” 


1 8 HOW DOT HEARD “THE MESSIAH.” 

The Tenor talked low with the lady. 

“ Here is a Christmas present, Dot.” He handed 
Dot a bill. 

“ And here is one for your mother,” said the Alto, 
giving Dot a little roll of money. 

Dot was better now. He looked bewildered at his 
new fortune. 

“ Thank you, lady. Thank you, sir. Are you able? ” 
The Alto laughed. 

“ Yes, Dot. I am to receive a hundred dollars for 
singing to-morrow evening. I shall try to think of 
you. Dot, when I am rendering one of the passages — 
perhaps it will give me inspiration. I shall see you. 
Dot — under the statue of Apollo.” 

The sexton was turning off the lights in the chancel. 
He called Dot. The church grew dimmer and dimmer, 
and the great organ faded away in the darkness. In 
the vanishing lights the Alto and Tenor went out of 
the church, leaving Dot with the sexton. 

It was Sabbath evening — Christmas. 

Lights glimmered thickly among the snowy trees on 
the Common ; beautiful coaches were rolling through 
the crowded streets. 

Dot entered Music Hall timidly through a long pas- 



HOW DOT HEARD “THE MESSIAH.” 1 9 


sage through which bright, happy faces were passing, 
silks rustling, aged people moving sedately and slowly. 


and into which the 
crowds on the street 
seemed surging like a 
tide. Faces were too 
eager with expectation to 
notice him or his feet. 
At last he passed a sharp 
angle in the long pas- 
sage, and the great organ 
under thousand g a s - 
jets burst upon his view. 
An usher at one of the 
many lower doors looked 
at his ticket doubtfully: 

“Second gallery — 
back.” 

Dot followed the trail- 
ing silks up the broad 
flights of stairs, reached 
the top, and asked another 
usher to show him his 
seat. The young man 
whom Dot addressed had 


DOT HAS NEVER HEARD SUCH MUSIC 
BEFORE. 


20 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.’ 


that innate refinement of feeling that marks a true 
Boston gentleman. He gave Dot a smile, as much as 
to say, “ I am glad^(?^ can enjoy all this happiness with 
the rest,” and said : 

“ Follow me.” 

His manner was so kind that Dot thought he would 
like to speak to him again. He remembered what the 
Alto had said about the statue of Apollo, and as the 
usher gave him back his check and pointed to the num- 
ber on the check and the seat. Dot said : 

“Will you please tell me, sir, which is the statue of 
Apollo 

The usher glanced at the busts and statues along the 
wall. He spoke kindly : 

“ That is the Apollo Belvedere.” 

Dot thought that a pretty name ; it did not convey to 
his mind any association of the Vatican palace, but he 
knew that some beautiful mystery was connected with it. 

And now Dot gazes in amazement on the scene before 
him. In the blaze of light the great organ rises resplen- 
dently, sixty feet in height, its imposing facade hiding 
from view its six thousand pipes. People are hurrying 
into the hall, flitting to and fro ; young ladies in black 
silks and velvets and satins; old men where were so 
many men with white hair ever seen before ? stately 





THE ALTO STOOD LOOKING STEADILY AT DOT, 




t - 

J- 






HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.’ 


23 


men with thin faces, bald — teachers, college professors. 
Tiers of seats in the form of half a pyramid rise at 
either end of the organ. These are filling with the 
chorus — sopranos and altos in black dresses and white 
shawls, tenors and basses in black coats, white neck-ties 
and kids. In front, between the great chorus, rises a 
dark statue, and around this, musicians are gathering — 
players on violins, violas, violoncellos, contra basses, 
flutes, oboes, bassoons, trumpets, trombones, horns ; the 
pyramidal seats fill ; the hall overflows ; the doors are 
full, the galleries. The instruments tune. A dark- 
haired man steps upon the conductor’s stand, he raises 
his baton; there is a hush, then half a hundred instru- 
ments pour forth the symphony. 

Dot listens. He has never heard such music before; 
he did not know that anything like it was ever heard on 
earth. It grows sweeter and sweeter : 

“ Comfort ye^ 

Did an angel speak? The instruments are sweeter 
now : 

“ Comfort ye my people." 

Did that voice come from the air ? 

Dot listens and wonders if this is earth : 

“ Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God, salt h your Godd* 


24 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH. 


Dot sees a tall man standing alone — in front of the 
musicians — is it he that is singing.^ Dot gazes upon 
his face with wide eyes. It is he — and he is the Tenor 
who had befriended him the night before. 

What music followed when the chorus arose and 
sang : 

“ Every valley shall be exalted ! ” 


Dot hears the grand music sweep on, and he feels, as 
all feel, that the glorious Messiah is about to appear. 
He sees a lady in white satin and flashing jewels step 
forward : he hears a ripple of applause, and a voice full 
of strength and feeling sings : 


“ O thou that tellest good tidmgs to Zion, O thoti that tellest good tidings to Jerusa- 
lem, say unto the cities of Judah, Behold your God I ” 

Dot knows that voice. Will indeed she lift her eyes 
to him } 

No, she does not. She sits down, the hall rinQ:inQ: 
with applause. She rises, bows, but she does not look 
toward the statue of Apollo, near which Dot is sitting. 

Dot hears dreamy music now, more enchanting than 
any before it. The great audience do not stir, or move 
a fan, or raise a glass. It grows more ethereal; it 
seems now but a wavy motion in the air. He hears a 
lady near whisper : 


^rr 

T1 « 


IIT 

-r) 


71 % 


m I 

%_r\ 


m. 


I 


-t-> 

cS 

tc 


. r» 

I I I 

H-t 

iL I If 

•I lit 

;%J_Ll 


rs 

a 

cS 


^3 

u 

(V 




( 


• L 

I 

«1A 


i^-LL 
I I I I ^ 
M 

C3 

o 


i o 

% o 

«c 

«.r\ -2 


O) 

o 

'H 


II 

It 

-1^ 


i 

I 

ciil 


30 


+: 

-TsL I 
I -L?fc. 

I M I I 


O 

w 


.T 


T% 


n ■% 


o 

o 


•Lr\ .2 


•Ll'!k 


^*»4< 

I 


'Hi 
I 


IH-!-+ 




iiti 


n% 

I 

« 


Tl% 

I ! 

m 

11% 

-w 


+-H 


03 

03 

"W 


cO 


•I 

^ii g 

III 


« 


I 

-tJT 


%UA 


_Ci I 
I 

TO 

I I I I I 


g 

S 


f 

\| 


[1 


I* ' 

f-fel I 


TT 

% 


%{ 

I 

% 

%l 

I 

I 


-d 

■u 


5sii S 

Mi'' 

%-r\ .22 


( 


JTS- 

%i_L\ 


9 TT' 


m 


T% 

% 

I 

1% 


m 


r 


•J-IN 

I- 

I 


111% C 

III 03 


fcX) 


03 

dl 


%Li'\ 


TO 


1111 


a, 

03 


TT% 

I I 

fl ■% 


% 

I 

1% 


^ — 

I 

'% 


%Lii!k a 
c3 


I 

•I 

I 

%. 

%11'X 

%LJ_I 


%L 

jxr% 

I I I 


o 


%LLI 

III 

%Lr% 


%i-L.) 
LT I I 


>> 

liH 


%LI'\ 


'Hi 

I ! 
I*!' 




I -ua 


[fi 


1% 


TIf, 

’f f 

/f].T 


%i'\ 


1%. 1.1 
1 1 ■ 


/iTM-i 

L I I 1 J 


%-Jl^ 


l%LJ_i 

111 ! 

!%JJ.'\ 


« LI 

l%K 


%U'\ 

%JJL 2 i 

• I 

I 

%i.LI 




•LIX 

I II 

%U_ 


I -L®!. 


TO TO 


1 M I I 


are with young, and gent - ly lead, and gent - ly lead those that are with young. 


4 * 



HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.” 


27 


“ The Pastoral symphony.” 

The Alto has risen again. She stands out from the 
great chorus — what a beautiful figure ! The dark-haired 
man lifts his baton : the lady turns her face toward the 
upper gallery. Her eyes wander for a moment; they 
rest on — Dot. 

There was no applause now. Tears stood in the 
Alto’s eyes — tears stood in the eyes of every one. 
There was a deep hush and tears, and in the silence the 
Alto stood looking steadily at — Dot. 

There was a rustle in the hall — it grew. The silence 
was followed by a commotion that seemed to rock the 
hall. The applause gathered force like a tempest. 

Then the beautiful lady looked towards Dot, and 
sang again the same wonderful air, and all the hall 
grew still, and people’s eyes were wet again. 

The Hallelujah Chorus with its grand fugues was 
sung, the people rising and standing with bowed heads 
during the majestic outpouring of praise. 

It is ended now — faded and gone. The great organ 
stands silent in the dark hall ; the coaches have rolled 
away, the clocks are striking midnight. 

“ I have come to congratulate you before retiring,” 
said our Tenor to the Alto, as he stepped into the 


28 HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.” 

parlor of the Revere House. “ To-night has been the 
triumph of your life. Nothing so moved the audience as 
“ He shall feed his flock like a shepherdr 

“ Do you know to what I owed the feeling that so 
inspired me in that air ? ” 

“ No.” 

“It was poor little Dot in the gallery. You teach 
music, do you not t ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You are about to open a school ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Give Dot a place as office boy — errand boy — 
something. It will lift a weight from my heart.” 

“ I had thought of it. He has a beautiful voice.” 

“ I might get him a place in a choir.” 

Fifteen years have passed. The old Handel and 
Haydn Society have sung The Messiah fifty, perhaps 
sixty times. The snows of December are again on the 
hills. The grand oratorio is again rehearsing for the Sab- 
bath evening before Christmas. 

A new tenor is to sing on the occasion — he was 
born in Boston, has studied in Milan, and has achieved 
great triumphs as an interpreter of sacred music in Lon- 
don and Berlin. 


HOW DOT HEARD “ THE MESSIAH.” 29 

The old hall is filled again. The symphony has 
begun its dulcet enchantment; the Tenor, with a face 
luminous and spiritual, arises, and with his first notes 
thrills the audience and holds it as by a spell : 

“ Comfort ye. ” 

He thought of the time when he first heard those 
words. He thought of the hearts whose kindness had 
made him a singer. Where were they ? Their voices 
had vanished from the choirs of earth, but in spirit those 
sweet singers seemed hovering around him. 


“ Comfort ye my peopled 


He looked, too, toward the Apollo on the wall. He 
recalled the limp bellows boy who had sat there sixteen 
years ago. How those words then comforted him ! 
How he loved to sing them now ! 


“ speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her that her warfare is accomplished, 
that her iniquity is pardoned." 


It was Dot. 


CHRISTMAS IN THE CATACOMBS 
A. D. 176. 


TT had been a day of Rome in her glory — the Satur- 
nalia. Through the imperial streets had passed 
grand pageants. Aurelian had returned from his con- 
quests. The Temple of Janus was closed ; banners of 
peace filled the air. Aurelian feasted in the Capitol. 
At the tables sat nobles and peasants ; all were equal on 
that one day. 

Let us turn to the gloomy quarries under the Cam- 
pagna. Along the Appian Way of monuments and 
palaces, in removing the stone for building, there had 
been created countless caverns where from early periods 
criminals had taken refuge. Latterly these cells had 
been secretly used as chapels by the persecuted Chris- 
tians ; and here to-night — hard by the blazing and 
drunken city — these proscribed men and women were 
gathering to celebrate the birth of the Lord. Torches 
flamed on the damp walls, revealing the rude inscrip- 
tions on many a martyr’s tomb. After the Feast 
of Charity, an old man rose in their midst — the 
venerable Alexander. 

30 



IN THE CATACOMBS 



# 




CHRISTMAS IN THE CATACOMBS. 


33 


His name was on the list of the condemned for whom 
the Roman officers were seeking. He pointed upward : 
“ The roof of stone hides the stars, but they shine ; and 
they that turn many to righteousness shall shine as the 
stars of heaven. I know that when the Saturnalia 
passes, I shall be given to the beasts. But the hosts of 
the righteous shall increase, shining in their beauty, and 
Bethlehem’s Star shall never set.” 

Even so. When the Saturnalia came again, and the 
Christians gathered again in the stone chambers to 
celebrate the birth of Jesus, on the martyrs’ record along 
the smoky wall were new names — among them the 
aged Alexander’s. 


THE VISION OF CONSTANTINE, A. D. 312. 


T3OME has suffered mighty changes. It is no 
longer the Rome of Aurelian, no longer the 
temple place of heathen gods. 

But the Bethlehem Star still shines. 

More than three hundred years have now passed 
away since its mysterious ray led the Magi to the 
Redeemer’s cradle. Constantine, Rome’s emperor now, 
has seen the failure of the gods of Rome and Athens. 
He has been forced to ponder, forced to believe that 
the faith of the persecuted Christians in a God, one and 
invisible, and in his Crucified Son, may be the true 
faith of the world. 

In this year, 312, he had seen the Vision which was 
to change the state of the world. That ancient histo- 
rian who received the narrative from Constantine’s own 
declaration, thus describes this most wonderful event of 
Christian History : 

The army arriving near Rome, the emperor was employed in devout ejacula- 
tions. It was the twenty-seventh of October, about three o’clock in the afternoon, 
the sun was declining, when there suddenly appeared a pillar of light in the 
heavens in the form of a cross, with this plain inscription : 


34 



THE VISION OF CONSTANTINE 








THE VISION OF CONSTANTINE. 


37 


In hoc Signo vinces. [In this sign thou shall conquer.] 

The emperor was amazed. The cross and sign blazed before the eyes of the 
whole army. 

Early the next morning, Constantine informed his officers that Christ had 
appeared to him in the night, with the cross in his hand, and commanded him to 
make the cross the royal standard. The officers were ordered to construct a cross, 
and a standard. The standard was made thus : 

A long spear, plated with gold, with a transverse piece at the top, in the form of 
a cross, to which was fastened a four-square purple banner, embroidered with gold 
and beset with precious stones which reflected the highest luster; above the cross 
was a crown overlaid with gold and jewels, within which was placed the sacred 
symbol, the two first letters of the name of Christ in Greek. 


Under this standard, October 29, 312, Constantine 
defeated the Roman Emperor, Maxentius, on the banks 
of the Tiber. He entered Rome in triumph, bearing 
aloft the cross. The Christians hailed it with acclama- 
tions, and a joyful public Christmas followed. 

The Saturnalia became the Festival of the Nativity. 

The ancient pagan shrines vanished, or they glowed 
with the holy lights of the new and triumphant faith — 
the beautiful Bethlehem Star shining over all. 


ST. PATRICK AT TARA, A. D. 432. 


EW temples have arisen in Rome. They uplift 



^ ^ the cross. The golden season of the Saturnalia 
comes and goes, but the Festival of Christ is celebrated 
instead. Rome is filled with holy rejoicing, the Roman 
children sing of the Star of Bethlehem, masses are 
chanted — the heathen festival has become Christmas. 

The Church, mighty in its faith, is praying for the 
conversion of the world. Missionaries go forth into all 
the provinces of the vast Roman Empire. 

About the year 432, St. Patrick made a holy journey. 
He came to Ireland. He found the people idolaters, 
worshiping under the oaks, their bards and poets igno- 
rant of the true God ; and as St. Patrick was a sino-ino- 
prophet and teacher, the simple folks of Ireland, ever 
deeply stirred by song and eloquence, listened to him. 
They were moved by the beautiful story of Christ, and 
the hope of an eternal life. Thousands were baptized 
into the new faith. Churches sprung up over the green 
land as if by magic. St. Patrick preached in Ireland 
for some thirty years, and we cannot wonder that the 



ST. PATRICK AT TARA 







ST. PATRICK AT TARA. 


41 


Irish people still recall his mission with love, and speak 
of him with reverence. 

The scene of his greatest triumph was Tara. There 
he instituted the wonderful Christmas festivals of Rome. 
There his grand missionary anthems were inspired. 
According to tradition, he first sang his memorable 
hymn, Christ be with me, on one of the religious Christ- 
mases in the royal halls of Tara. It is a rapture of 
devotion and consecration : 


To Tara to-da}’ may the strength of God pilot me, 
May the power of God preserve me ; 

May the wisdom of God instruct me ; 

May the eye of God view me ; 

May the ear of God hear me ; 

May the word of God make me eloquent; 

May the hand of God protect me; 

May the way of God direct me ; 

May the shield of God defend me; 

Christ be with me, 

Christ on my right hand, 

Christ on my left hand, 

Christ in the heart of all to whom I speak, . 

Christ in the mouth of all who speak to me, 

Christ in the eye of all who see me, 

Christ in the ear of all who hear me. 



THE SNOW BIRD. 

TN the rosy light trills the gay swallow, 
^ The thrush, in the roses below; 

The meadow lark sings in the meadow. 
But the snow bird sings in the snow. 
Ah me ! 

Chickadee ! 

The snow bird sings in the snow! 


42 


THE SNOW BIRD. 


43 


The blue martin trills in the gable, 

The wren, in the gourd below ; 

In the elm, flutes the golden robin. 

But the snow bird sings in the snow. 
Ah me ! 

^ Chickadee ! 

The snow bird sings in the snow ! 

High wheels the gray wing of the osprey, 
The wing of the sparrow drops low ; 

In the mist dips the wing of the robin, 
And the snow bird’s wing in the snow. 
Ah me ! 

Chickadee ! 

The snow bird sings in the snow. 

I love the high heart of the osprey. 

The meek heart of the thrush, below. 
The heart of the lark in the meadow. 

And the snow bird’s heart in the snow; 
But dearest to me. 

Chickadee ! Chickadee ! 

Is that true little heart in the snow. 


THE CONVERSION OF THE FRANKS, 
A. D. 496. 



HERE lived in Geneva, near the close of the fifth 


century, a most beautiful Christian girl. She 
was called the loveliest woman in the world. She was 
also beautiful in character, and spent her time in works 
of charity. 

Clovis, King of the Franks, heard of the beauty of 
Clotilde. According to the old story, he sent a noble 
Roman, Aurelian, commissioning him, if he found her 
loveliness as great as her fame, to woo her for him, and 
bring her to Rheims, the Frankish capital. Aurelian 
went to Geneva clothed in rags. He appeared before 
the fair Clotilde as a beggar. She received him with 
pity. Kneeling, she began to wash his feet. 

“ Lady,” said Aurelian, “ I would speak to thee. I 
am no mendicant,” said he. “ I am a king’s ambassa- 
dor. King Clovis desires to make thee his queen. 
Wilt thou take and wear this ring? ” 

Clotilde put upon her finger the jewel of Clovis ; and 
by the act she made the France of the future one of 
the Christian empires of the world. 


44 





THE BAPTISM OF CLOVIS, RHEIMS, A.D. 496. 








9 

‘I » 






THE CONVERSION OF THE FRANKS. 


47 


In 496, a German army crossed the Rhine, warring 
upon Clovis. The great battle of Cologne was fought. 
At a point of the battle the Franks were in much peril. 
Clovis called upon his gods. But the danger of defeat 
grew the Franks were hard pressed. Then Aurelian, 
who had won for Clovis his beautiful wife, cried : “ Call 
on the God whom the queen preacheth, my lord King!” 

Clovis lifted his face toward the sky. “ Christ Jesus, 
thou whom my queen calleth the Son of the Living 
God, if thou wilt help, I will proclaim thy name, and 
be baptized ! ” prayed this king. 

The Germans were beaten, their king slain. 

That was a grand Christmas in Rheims, 496. It cele- 
brated the conversion of the Franks. The way from 
the palace to the baptistery was hung in silk and gold. 
The clergy led the way with crosses and standards, 
reading the gospels and chanting psalms. Then came 
the bishop leading the king by the hand and followed 
by the meek and beautiful queen. The king and royal 
household were baptized, and an army of three thou- 
sand Franks, and a multitude of women and children. 
The stars beamed brightly that night over Gaul and 
the Rhine. The Star of Bethlehem shone in its holy 
place. The kingdoms of earth were becoming the 
kingdoms of Christ. 


GOOD LUCK. 


{A Christmas Story.) 


G ood LUCK’S father was an old bread-cart man. 

He drove a horse named “ Molly ” that used to 
jog along from house to house in the country road,/^- 
gle, jingle, jingle, her harness tied up with tow strings 
and toggles ; a faithful steady 
old creature that was never 
known to run away. After 
some years’ service “ Molly ” 
learned “ to go without driv- 
ing,” as the people used to say. 
She would start from the old 
red bakery, jingle, jingle, jingle, 
and stop regularly at every 
house, without a “whoa” or 
a pull at the much-mended 
reins. Her mission was to supply the good people all 
with crackers and cookies and gingerbread ; she seemed 
to understand the dignity of her work ; no other horse in 
48 



GOOD LUCK. 


49 


the town was honored with carrying seven bells on his 
harness all the year, and to trot along with a jingle, jin- 
gle, jingle. Old Molly seemed to comprehend it all. 

Her good master’s name was Fayerweather ; a kindly 
man that baked crackers and cookies and gingerbread 
during the week, and slept in church on Sundays after 
he passed the contribution box. His wife Dorothea, 
or “ Dorothy ” as she was called, was a simple, good 
woman, and the two might have become quite well to 
do in life, if she had not been quite so free in distrib- 
uting crackers, cookies and gingerbread in charity 
among certain hard-working people of the neighbor- 
hood. She was always “ sendin’ things,” as the good 
people expressed it, to the poor and the sick. 

“ I wouldn’t never see anybody suffer,” she used to 
say ; “ ’tain’t in my nature ; lor, husband, ’twill all come 
back again some day; nobody will ever live to see Good 
Luck begging bread.” 

“ Good Luck! ” And who was “ Good Luck ” He 
was their little hunchbacked boy, their only child. He 
had a beautiful face, quick wit, and a warm, generous 
heart, and everybody loved him ; but, poor fellow, he 
was, as the people said, a “little humpback.” 

It deeply grieved the heart of Dorothy when she 
came to realize her little boy’s deformity. When the 


50 


GOOD LUCK. 


time came to name the child, his father called him 
Henry, but his mother “ Good Luck.” 

“ I believe in sending a child out into the world with 
a good name,” said she. “ Good Luck is a name that 
will make the people look kindly upon him when I am 
laid away in the old buryin’ ground, without a grave- 
stone.” Dorothy was a wise woman in this. So little 
Henry began to be called by the neighbors “ Good 
Luck,” greatly to the delight of Dorothy, and after a 
time he was known by no other name. 

At last industrious Mr. Fayerweather died, and Good 
Luck was left to drive the old red bread-cart, jingle, 
jingle, jingle, Dorothy continued to bake, and to give 
away almost as many crackers and cookies as she sold, 
and it greatly delighted the generous heart of Good 
Luck to carry these gifts to their friends. 

He received many returns — apples, pears, peaches 
and vegetables. 

“ Take all they offer you,” said wise Dorothy. “That 
is the way to be loved. They love you best who do the 
most for you. The heart loves those it helps, and hates 
those it injures. Always let people do for you, if you 
want them to love you, and never let them stop lest 
their love should fail.” 

One day a great misfortune befell the widow. Poor 


GOOD LUCK. 


51 



old “ Molly ” was found dead, after thirty years of use- 
fulness, and Dorothy gave away the seven musical bells, 
and the old har- 
ness, with all of 
its tow strings and 
toggles. 

“ Now I must 
support myself by 
knittin’,” she said 
to Good Luck, 

“ and I am goin’ 
to teach you how 
to knit, and we 
will help each 
other. We must 
believe that ev- 
erything that hap- 
pens is for the 
best since we do 
not know any- 
thing and cannot 
see the end ; so 

the book of Job MRS. fayerweather and “good luck.” 

teaches, and I do think that book is the best book of 
poetry in all the world.” 


52 


GOOD LUCK. 


So the quiet old lady and her boy used to be seen 
sitting in the door of the little red cottage under the 
woodbine and hop-vine, knitting, knitting. 

They were very happy. They used to talk of those 
prosperous days when old “ Molly ” made musical the 
air of the country roads lined with locust-trees and 
apple-trees, and good Mr. Fayerweather was the baker 
of the town week-days and passed the contribution box 
Sundays, and on the latter days rested in his cool 
country pew. 

“It makes me glad to think that I gave away so 
much,” Dorothy used to say. “ All that we have to 
make the soul happy is what we have given away. I 
wish I had given away more — I should have been a 
great deal happier, and you. Good Luck, would have 
been a deal better off. There’s nothinor like a eood 
name and good will in this world. Don’t you never 
worry. Good Luck, when I am gone. The Lord is our 
Father, and he owns the universe, and it makes me feel 
very rich. He’ll remember the crackers I gave away, 
and will always take care of you. Good Luck. Wait 
and see.” 

One day, when the world was full of summer sunshine, 
and the orioles were singing their happiness among the 
cool old trees, and the bobolinks were toppling amid the 


GOOD LUCK. 


53 


dewy clover, the two sat knitting together. Suddenly 
Dorothy’s arm fell. 

“ I feel strange,” said she. “ Good Luck, my darling 
child ! I am paralyzed. I shall never knit any more. 
Go for the neighbors.” 

The neighbors came running. They brought her 
water from the old well — cordials, cake, flowers — all 
came running with something. 

“ I sha’n’t live long,” said Dorothy, “ and I am goin’ 
to prophesy : Everybody that is good to Good Luck 
and gives him a home will be prosperous and happy ; 
the Lord told me so. Now help me to my bed — I shall 
never go about again.” 

She lay sick during the beautiful June days. Her 
bed was covered with gifts from many hands : roses and 
lilies from the children, and food in abundance from 
those she had helped feed in the happy years gone by. 

There are people whose consciences are so quiet, that 
we feel the peace of their presence, and so it was with 
Dorothy. Her sick room was a delightful place, and 
the neighbors never left her. 

One day in July, when the birds were singing in all 
the trees, she said ; “ I think I’ll have to go now — the 
Lord has called me ; always be good to Good Luck and 
the Lord will bless you” — and she turned her head 


54 


GOOD LUCK. 


aside, and when they went to her she was dead, and the 
birds sang on as before. 

What was to become of Good Luck ? 

After the funeral the neighbors returned to the old 
red cottage, and sat down on the decayed door-steps 
under the hop-vine to discuss the subject. 

“ His mother propliesied before she died,” said brisk 
Aunt Betty Pringle, “ that anybody that gave him a 
roof would always have happiness and prosperity. The 
Lord told her so, and he knew. I’ll take him, just to 
drive trouble away. What do ye say. Good Luck ? ” 

Good Luck said nothing. He did not like to be 
adopted because he was supposed to be a good fairy. 
He stood silent with a great emptiness in his heart. 

“ I’ll take him,” said a farmer’s wife, “ because his 
mother used to give me cookies, and always was good to 
me when I was sick.” 

“ So will I,” said another. 

“ And I,” said another. 

Good Luck’s face brightened, and his empty heart 
began to fill with love for everybody. 

What do you say. Good Luck } ” asked the wife of 
the Esquire. 

“ This is a good world,” said the boy ; “ it is all so 
good that I do not know what to say.” 


GOOD LUCK. 


55 


“ I will take you,” said the last-named lady, “ because 
your mother was so good to everybody. We have a 
great house, and plenty of room, and I will send you to 
school. What do you say ? ” 

Good Luck began to cry, but he only said, “ The 
people are all so good. I wish mother was here to see.” 

“ I would like to take the boy,” said sad-faced Mrs. 
Poore, “ because the old bread-cart once tided us over 
so many troubles when we were so unfortunate. I 
always loved the boy, and I lost my best friend when 
his mother died. My heart wants him, but I am the 
poorest woman in the town, and husband is lame, 
and is the most unlucky person in the world, always 
meeting with accidents and losses. You wouldn’t like to 
go with me, would you. Good Luck } ” 

Good Luck stood silent. The people all were silent, 
though the robins kept singing in the old trees. 

“Yes,” said Good Luck, crying ; “that is what my 
heart says — yes.” 

“ Then come right along; I’ll always be good to you ; 
I wonder what husband will say now ? ” They stopped 
only to lock the door of the old red cottage, and to gaze 
for a moment on the late good Mrs. Fayerweather’s empty 
bed, and then they went away. Good Luck holding Mrs. 
Poore by the hand, and all the birds were singing. 


56 


GOOD LUCK. 


“ I’ll tell you what it is,” said the Deacon’s wife as 
the two disappeared down the bushy road, “ I do believe 
the boy will bring good luck to that unlucky family, and 
make the Poores rich some day. Wait and see.” 

The Poores lived in a bit of a house among the lilac 
bushes, at one end of a great pasture, in a by-lane, all 
out of the way. They had never been able to live in 
any better place. They had two children, “ Jimmy and 
Jenny,” as the latter were known. 

Mr. Poore was lame. He had always been meeting 
with accidents. He was hoeing in the garden among 
the bean-poles that day when Mrs. Poore returned. He 
looked up, saw her coming, and came with his hoe for 
a cane to meet her at the stone wall. 

Mrs. Poore’s heart had its misgivings as to what her 
husband would say to her new charge. 

“ See here,” said she, “ see what I have brought 
you.” 

“ What, Mary ? ” 

“ Good Luck.” 

“ Well, Mary, we have need enough of good luck, but 
how happened the boy to come home with you ? The 
poor are always good to the poor; the best friends they 
have ; but did none of the rich folks offer to take the 
boy home ? ” 


GOOD LUCK. 


57 


“ Yes, all.” 

And you offered him a home, too ? ” 

“ Yes, and he wanted to come.” 

“ Well, Mary, you are a good woman, and I have 
nothing to say. We’ve got nothing to depend upon but 
the Lord,^ and five can depend upon him as well as four. 
I don’t expect anything in this world, and blessed are 
those that expect nothing, for they shall not be dis- 
appointed.” 

“ But I do,” said Mrs. Poore, “ now that I have taken 
Good Luck. In helping him, I am going to help you 
and myself. If you want help, help others, that’s the 
way.” 

Just then ’Squire Jones came along and Mrs. Poore 
and Good Luck went into the cottage. 

“ What do you think my wife’s gone and done ? ” 
said Mr. Poore to the ’Squire. “ She’s been and taken 
a boy — Fayerweather’s boy — humpbacked, too. These 
women are curious now, ain’t they ” 

“ You deserve to go all to the poorhouse together.” 
Indignant ’Squire Jones strode away. 

“ Say, ’Squire,” said poor Mr. Poore. 

“ What ” 

“ We ain’t goin’. We’re goin’ to have good luck.” 

The two children, Jimmy and Jenny, were delighted 


58 


GOOD LUCK. 


that Good Luck had chosen their mother to be his 
mother, and deemed it the greatest possible honor. Mr. 
Poore treated the boy very kindly, and Good Luck was 
very happy indeed. And all the birds were singing. 

Summer passed. The birds ceased to sing; the 
orchards became russet and red with apples, and the 
maples turned red, and oak-trees brown. 

Shady November came ; then frosty December, with 
complaining winds and light snows. 

Mr. Poore had had his usual accidents and losses. 
His potatoes blasted, the bugs ate his squashes, the 
frost killed his peppers before they turned red. Then 
one of his pigs died, and he had neuralgia in his neck. 

Christmas week came. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Poore to his wife, as they sat down 
one evening alone to their sweet apples and porridge, 
“ the boy has been here almost six months, and I would 
be sorry to part with him, but he hasn’t brought us any 
good luck yet. Misfortune goes right on, one thing 
followin another; does seem’s so the Fates were against 
us, and I was born under an unlucky planet. Jimmy 
will have to go into the woods and help the woodchop- 
pers this winter instead of to school, and Jenny must 
go to braidin’ straw, and give up her education. Such 
bright handsome children as they are, too. If some 









GOOD LUCK. 


6l 

people had the bringing up of Jimmy they’d make a 
President of him. Why not? Abraham Lincoln was 
President.” 

It was an old New England town. There were many 
families of intelligence and means in it, and many young 
men had gone from it into business or to college. The 
latter always returned to their bowery old homes at 
least three times a year ; on Independence Day, Thanks- 
giving Day, and Christmas. All these people had most 
kindly memories of the Fayerweathers, and even of old 
“ Molly,” with her wonderful intelligence and jingle, 
jingle, jingle. In fact most visitors to the town used to 
inquire about “ Mother Fayerweather ” while the latter 
was living, and about little Good Luck after he went to 
live with the Poores. 

Christmas makes all mankind brothers, and often 
prompts good hearts to be charitable in very curious 
ways. This Christmas seemed to lead all the visitors to 
the old houses to inquire about Good Luck, and at a 
church party on Christmas eve, it was arranged to 
make him a visit on Christmas night, and to give a sur- 
prise party to the Poores in return for their kindness to 
the boy, and the boy’s parents’ good hearts and charities 
in the days of jingle, jingle, jingle, and the boyhood 
times now passing away. 


62 


GOOD LUCK. 


“ A very lean Christmas we’ll have to-day,” said poor 
Mr. Poore as he sat down to the table on Christmas 
morning ; “ porridge for breakfast, one little rabbit for 
dinner, and nothin’ for supper, and no presents for any 
of us, although we be as good as anybody. It does 
seem as though the Lord had forgotten us.” 

The snow was falling. Sunbeams were falling with 
the snow, and the day bid fair to be pleasant. 

“ Oh ! let us try to be thankful,” said little Mrs. 
Poore. 

There was red sky in the evening. The cold moon 
rose, and the woods stood white in the silent light. 

The family gathered around the tallow candle. 

“ It is Christmas night,” said Mr. Poore. “ Let’s do 
somethin’ — let’s roast some apples and pop some corn 
— then, Mary, you shall read a chapter, and we’ll all go 
to bed.” 

Jingle^ jingle^ jmgle. 

“ There’s a sleigh coming down the road,” said Mr. 
Poore. “Somebody’s havin’ a good time Well, I’m 
glad fer ’em.” 

Jingle^ jingle, jingle, , 

Jingle, jingle, jingle. 

“ Sleighin’ party, I guess. Strange they should be 


GOOD LUCK. 


63 


cornin’ this way. Well, they ain’t cornin’ to see us, 
wherever they may be goin’ to.” 


Jingle, jingle, jingle, 
Jingle, jingle, jingle; 
Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle. 
Jingle, jingle, jingle / 



“ Goodness, Mary, get up and look out of the winder. 
There must be a dozen sleighs. What do you see — 
hey ? ” 

“ Nothin’. ” 

“ Nothin’. Why, the road must be full. Just listen.” 


Jingle, jingle, jingle. 
Jingle, jingle, jingle ; 


Jingle, jingle, jingle, jifigle, 
Jmgle, jingle, jingle ! 


“ There, do you call that nothin’ ? Let me get up.” 

Mr. Poore went to the window. The young people 
followed. 

“ I don’t see anything,” said Mrs. Poore. “ There’s a 
lot of people, though — there, coming along under the 
trees up the lane, and every time they stop to laugh, 
they go — jingle, jingle, jingle!^ 


64 


GOOD LUCK. 


“ And they’re cornin’ here,” said Mr. Poore, “ they’re 
cornin’ here. What can they be cornin’ here fer I 
don’t owe ’em anything.” 

“ I’m afraid ” — said Mrs. Poore. 

“ What, Mary ? ” 

“ They ” — 


“ Well 


5) 


“ They ain’t humans.” 

“ Sho ! — they can’t be cornin’ to do us any harm ; if 
they be spirits they be good ones. Just hear ’em laugh 
now.” 


Jingle^ jingle^ jingle^ 

Jingle Jingle^ jingle ; 

Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle. 

Jingle, jingle, jingle 1 

“ They look like people with strings of sleigh-bells on 
to ’em, just like Fayerweather’s old horse, ‘ Molly.’ 
Perhaps they’re cornin’ to see Good Luck — who 
knows ? Like enough it be the spirit of Fayerweatlier’s 
old horse.” 

“ Florses don’t have spirits,” said philosophical Mrs. 
Poore. 

“ How do you know ? ” said Mr. Poore. “ I always 
kinder thought old ‘ Molly ’ had.” 


GOOD LUCK. 


65 


“ Hush,” said Mrs. Poore, “ they’re coming.” 

Rap^ 7‘ap^ rap. 

“ Who be ye all ” 

Jingle., jingle, jingle. 

Jingle, jingle, jiitgle ! 

“ Come in, whoever ye may be.” 

A dozen or more merry young people rushed into the 
cottage, and filled the room. They were gaily dressed, 
and each one had around the breast, worn like a soldier’s 
sash, a string of sleigh-bells. There were some six or 
more young gentlemen and as many young ladies. 

“ We’ve come to see Good Luck,” said the Esquire’s 
son, “ and to wish you all a Merry Christmas.” 

Then they all laughed merrily, and as often as they 
laughed, the bells all seemed to laugh too, in a kind of 
melody. 

They had brought a present of books to Good Luck, 
a Christmas cake to Mrs. Poore, and a bundle of clothes 
for Jimmy, and a package of bonbons for Jenny. 

“ Christmas never came here before,” said Mr. Poore. 
“ What’s brought you here ” 

“ Good Luck; his mother was such a good woman.” 

“ But what made you think of us } ” 

“ You are so good to Good Luck,” answered the 


66 


GOOD LUCK. 


’Squire’s son. “ Now, Mr. Poore, is there nothing we 
can do for you ? ” 

“ Massy — no.” 

“ But you have to work hard, and earn little.” 

“Yes — I suppose so.” 

“You know about the opening of the box factory. 
Wouldn’t you like a place there as overseer.^ It would 
be an easy place, the pay would be good, and it would 
help your wife in making a better home.” 

“Massy, what luck! Yes, I would.” 

“ Well, I have come to offer you the place,” said the 
’Squire’s son. 

“ Massy, what luck ! ” 

“ Well, the factory opens the first Monday in January. 
Salary twenty dollars a week.” 

“ Twenty dollars a week. What luck ! ” 

The young people all laughed : 

Jing/e, jingle, jingle. 

Jingle, jingle, jingle. 

Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, 

Jingle, jingle, jingle / 


“ Do you want to know what these bells remind 
me of.?” 

“Yes,” said the ’Squire’s son. 


GOOD LUCK. 


67 


“ All those good things old Molly used to carry, and 
old Fayerweather to give away. Sort of an echo — are 
you sure that you are all livin’ bein’s, or are you old 
Fayerweather’s ghosts, and the like o’ that ? Spirits of 
people he used to help ? ” 

Jingle, jingle, j ingle',' was the only answer. 

“ I have been thinking of late,” said the ’Squire’s 
daughter to Mrs. Poore, “ that since you have taken 
Good Luck, we might let Jimmy come and live with 
us, and send him to school. Father is at the Legisla- 
ture now, and is away most of the year. We want a 
boy in the house, and we would give Jimmy his educa- 
tion for his company.” 

“ Massy, what good luck ! ” said Mr. Poore. 

Mrs. Poore threw her apron over her head and began 
to cry. 

At that, the young people in sleigh-bells all laughed 
again , jingle, jingle, jingle! 

The “jingle party,” which had been gotten up in 
memory of poor old “ Molly’s ” benevolent journeys, 
left the cottage early, but the Poores sat up until mid- 
night to talk it over. 

The Poores are prosperous people now, and Mr. 
Poore said to his wife recently on a summer 
day: 


68 


GOOD LUCK. 


“I can hardly believe it, Mary — since you brought 
that boy home, and set things to goin’ right what luck 
we have had ; our luck turned then, now didn’t it, 
Mary ? Christmas never came to us before.” 

“ Yes,” said Mary, “this is a good world.” The poor 
woman following the habit of the old hard years threw 
her apron over her head and began to cry — but her 
tears were those of joy. 

And all the birds were singing. 


THE CHRISTMAS CROWNING OF 
CHARLEMAGNE, A. D. 800. 


T N the ancient cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle, France, 
there is a tomb of wonderful historic interest. The 
traveler thinks of it as he enters the solemn edifice, 
and beholds in the dim distance the chancel oriel burn- 
ing with mysterious splendors. 

“ Carlo-Magno,” reads the inscription. It is the 
tomb of an emperor, one of the greatest who ever wore 
the crown of the Caesars — Charlemagne! 

He was King of the Franks, of the peoples of Middle 
Europe and the nations of the North; he conquered 
the Saxons, and in tremendous struggles defeated all 
foes, until at last the Alps and the Baltic, the Rhine 
and the Rhone, were alike parts of his splendid empire. 
He conquered the Saracens of the South ; he added 
crown to crown, kingdom to kingdom, until Europe lay 
at his feet. 

At the Easter Festival in 774, he visited Rome in 
splendor. A great procession came out to meet him, 
headed by the Pope. The people hailed him with 
hallelujahs, the children waved green branches, the 

69 


70 THE CHRISTMAS CROWNING OF CHARLEMAGNE. 

clergy in princely vestments sang : “ Blessed is he that 
cometh in the name of the Lord ! ” 

In the year 800, he was summoned to Rome. The 
cardinals said : “ Let us honor this most powerful 
Defender of the Faith with a grand Christmas gift — 
the crown of the Roman world.” 

The Pope and clergy prepared for Christmas cere- 
monies of the most joyous and imposing character. It 
was arranged that though Charlemagne should reach 
Rome before Christmas, he should have no knowledge 
of the coronation that awaited him. The clergy, nobles 
and people were to assemble. When he should come 
into the church to attend mass, and should bow his 
head to receive the wafer — then he should be suddenly 
crowned and hailed Emperor of the World. 

It was one of the most poetic events of history. 
The Christmas day came, a beautiful day out of the skies 
of Italy. The Emperor entered the church in humility, 
and bowed before the altar. Suddenly Pope Leo up- 
lifted the crown of the Roman world, and set it upon his 
head. There arose then a great shout of joy. Clergy and 
nobles exclaimed in unison : “ Long live Charles Augus- 
tus, Crowned of God, Emperor of the Romans ! ” 

Christianity possessed Europe now. The Bethlehem 
Star, shining its eight centuries, lighted all the lands. 



THE CHRISTMAS CROWNING OF CHARLEMAGNE, A. D. 800. 











..t' 






THE CORONATION OF WILLIAM THE 
CONQUEROR, A. D. 1066. 


/^^HRISTMAS has been an eventful day in English 
history. 

English life and literature are alike full of reference 
to William of Normandy; to-day proud English nobles 
boast that their ancestors came over with the Con- 
queror. The conquest of England by William reads 
like romance. He left the fair-skyed duchy of Nor- 
mandy in September, 1066. His fleet, gay with pen- 
nants and gonfalons, numbered a thousand sails. His 
own ship had silken sails of many colors made by his 
duchess and her Norman maidens. On its prow a gold 
boy pointed towards England. Its banner was three 
Norman lions. 

Young Harold, the English king, prepared to resist 
the invasion. William landed his army and marched 
to Hastings. Here the two armies met. The English 
forces, all-confident, passed the night before the battle 
in feasting, young Harold little dreaming that this reve] 
under the October moon would be his last banquet. In 
the morning Duke William rode forth from the Norman 


73 


74 the coronation of william the conqueror. 

camp on a beautiful Barbary horse. The standard of 
the Three Norman Lions was borne after him. His 
army advanced, singing the great war-song of Roland. 

The fight began early on that golden October day. 
William’s beautiful horse was killed. His soldiers, sup- 
posing their king wounded, wavered. “ I am living,” 
cried Duke William, “and I will conquer!” And that 
night the standard of the Three Norman Lions waved 
over the field. Young Harold was found dead. His body 
was identified by one who loved him, the swan-necked 
Edith. '' Inf elix Harold'' they inscribed on his tomb. 

William hastened to Westminster to be crowned while 
the conquered people were helpless through fear. It 
was a Christmas Day. The English in London had 
expected to celebrate the festival in the Abbey, but the 
Conqueror demanded the church for his coronation. 
He surrounded it with battalions of Normans. He en- 
tered it with his barons, and the coronation rites began. 
The ceremony was interrupted by a tumult without that 
ended in a slaughter of his new English subjects. 

But the Christmas crown of England did not bring 
joy to the Conqueror. He is said to have been a most 
unhappy and remorseful man. 

Dark were those days; but the Star of Peace and 
Good Will was still shining. 







9 





T 

»■ 







«» 








r 


> 





«. 



f 



J 




« 

kj 


It 


«? 




f* 








I 


A 

i 

s 


-r 


f 4 



« 



<• 


I 

t 


%, 






T 4 


y» 





k 






I/t 




A V 


1 



4 


I 


f 


f 




1 


¥ 


i 


r 

I 


It-- 


» 


% 


.1 



* 


f, 


* 


f • 


f 


4 


ft:- 


y: 


«. 

I 



« • 


J- 



i 





I 






THE CLOCKS OF KENILWORTH. 


“ The clocks were stopped at the banquet-hourP 

A N ivy spray in my hand I hold, 

^ ^ The kindly ivy that covers the mould 
Of ruined halls ; it was brought to me 
From Kenilworth Castle, over the sea — 

O, Ivy, Ivy, I think of that Queen, 

Who once swept on her way through the oak walls 
green, 

To Kenilworth, far in the gathering glooms, 

Her cavalcade white with silver plumes. 

They are gone, all gone, those knights of old. 

With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 

And thou dost cover their castle’s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 

O, Ivy, Ivy — I see that hour. 

The great bell strikes in the signal-tower, 

The banners lift in the ghostly moon. 

The bards Proven9al their harps attune. 

The fiery fountains play on the lawns, 

The glare of the rocket startles the fawns. 


77 


78 


THE CLOCKS OF KENILWORTH. 


The trumpets peal, and roll the drums, 

And the Castle thunders, “ She comes, she comes ! ” 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold. 
And thou dost cover their castle’s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 

But hark ! the notes of the culverin ! 

To the Castle’s portal, trooping in, 

A thousand courtiers torches bear. 

And the turrets flame in the dusty air. 

The Castle is ringing, “ All hail ! all hail ! ” 

Ride slowly, O, Queen ! ’mid the walls of mail. 
And now let the courtliest knight of all 
Lead thy jeweled feet to the banquet hall ; 

A thousand goblets await thee there. 

And the great clocks lift their faces in air. 

They are gone, all gone, those knights of old. 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold, 
And thou dost cover their castle’s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 

O, Ivy true, O, Ivy old. 

The great clocks stare on the cups of gold 
Like dreadful eyes, and their hands pass on 
The festive minutes, one by one. 


THE CLOCKS OF KENILWORTH. 


79 


— “ Dying — dying,” they seem to say — 

“ This too — this too — shall pass away,” 

And the knights look up, and the knights look down, 
And their fair white brows on the great clocks frown. 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old. 

With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold. 

And thou dost cover their castle’s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 

On the dais the Queen now stands — and falls 
A silence deep on the blazing halls ; 

She opes her lips ■ — but, hark ! now dare 
The clocks to beat in the stillness there? 

— “ Dying — dying,” they seem to say — 

“ This too — this too — shall pass away ! ” 

And the Queen looks up, and with stony stare 
The high clocks look on the proud Queen there. 

They are gone, all gone, those knights of old. 

With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold. 

And thou dost cover their castle’s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 

Then the dark knights say, “What is wanting here? ” 
“That the hour should last” — so said a peer. 

“ The hour shall last! ” the proud earl calls ; 

“ Ho ! Stop the clocks in the banquet halls ! ” 


8o 


THE CLOCKS OF KENILWORTH. 


And the clocks’ slow pulses of death were stilled, 
And the gay earl smiled, and the wine was spilled, 
And the jeweled Queen at the dumb clocks laughed. 
And the flashing goblet raised and quaffed. 

They are gone, all gone, those knights of old. 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold. 
And thou dost cover their castle s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 

But time went on, though the clocks were dead ; 

O’er the dewy oaks rose the morning red. 

The earl of that sun-crowned castle died. 

And never won the Queen for his bride. 

And the Queen grew old, and withered, and gray. 
And at last in her halls of state she lay 
On her silken cushions, bejeweled, but poor. 

And the courtiers listened without the door. 

They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold. 
And thou dost cover their castle’s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 

The twilight flushes the arrased hall. 

The Night comes still, and her velvet pall 
Of diamonds cold drops from her hand. 

And still as the stars is the star-lit land. 


THE CLOCKS OF KENILWORTH. 


8l 


Men move like ghosts through the Castle’s rooms, 
But the old clocks talk ’mid the regal glooms : 

— Dying — dying,” they seem to say. 

Till the astrals pale in the light of day. 

They are gone, all gone, those knights of old. 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold. 
And thou dost cover their castle’s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true! 

O, Ivy true, as they listen there. 

On the helpless Queen the great clocks stare 
And over and over again they say, 

“ This too — this too — shall pass away.” 

And she clasps the air with her fingers old, 

And the hall is shadowy, empty and cold. 

“ Life I life 1 ” she cries, “ my all would I give 
For a moment, one moment, O, Time, to live I ” 
They are gone, all gone, those knights of old, 
With their red-cross banners and spurs of gold. 
And thou dost cover their castle’s mould, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 

On her crownless brow fell white her hair. 

And she buried her face in her cushions there : 

“ One moment ! ” — it echoed through the hall. 
But the clock stopped not on the arrased wall. 


82 


THE CLOCKS OF KENILWORTH. 


— There is a palace whose dial towers 
Uplift no record of vanishing hours, 
Disease comes not to its doors, nor falls 
Death’s dusty step in its golden halls. 
And more than crowns, or castles old. 
Or red-cross banners, or spurs of gold. 
That palace key it is to hold, 

O, Ivy, Ivy, kind and true ! 


AT RUNNYMEDE, A. D. 1213. 



HROUGH the darkness the Christmas Star still 


^ breaks its way onward. For England there was 
a long, gloomy period. King John — that Herod who 
doomed Prince Arthur, that English Innocent, to be 
murdered because the boy had the right to the throne, — 
was ever an oppressive and bloody man ; and at last the 
English barons agreed to compel him to give a promise 
that their rights should be recognized and protected. 
This revolt of the barons against their king was the 
beginning of English liberty. They met on November 
20, 1213. They placed their hands upon an altar and 
solemnly swore, one after another, that should King John 
refuse to grant a Charter of Rights, they would not only 
withdraw their allegiance, but they would wage war 
against him. This act was the English Declaration of 
Independence. 

The king was soon shown a sign of their feeling. 
Christmas Day came. King John waited in vain at his 
royal hall in Worcester for the barons to come and pay 
him the customary Christmas homage. It was a day of 
dark moment to him. At night glad Christmas lights 


84 


AT RUNNYMEDE. 


blazed in many an old baronial castle, but the glory had 
departed from the halls of the tyrant king. He read his 
impending fate in the silence and gloom. He fled to 
London. He shut himself up in the fortress of the 
Templars. But the barons followed him there. On the 
day of Epiphany, they haughtily presented themselves, — 
not with allegiance, but with demands for the Charter. 
“ Give me until Easter to consider this,” the king said 
at last with paling face. 

At Easter the barons again appeared before him. 
“ Why do they not ask for my crown ? ” he said. “ I 
will not grant them liberties that would make me a 
slave,” he added angrily. 

The barons summoned their knights. The king found 
himself deserted by his nobles and his people. After 
gloomy delay, “ I will grant the Charter,” he said sullenly ; 
and he grudgingly named time and place, Runnymede, 
June 15. That day became famous in English history, 
for King John, however grudgingly, kept his word. 

Four centuries later, on another Christmas day, 1688, 
the English Parliament called the wise and good William, 
Prince of Orange, to accept the English crown. So, 
through the years, light and gladness were growing for 
the people. 



AT RUNNYMEDE, 















NO CHRISTMAS! NO CHRISTMAS!” 


HE first “Still Christmas” in England occurred 



in 1525. Henry the Eighth was king, and he 
had not yet forfeited the respect of his subjects ; but 
great political events were at hand. 

In December the King was sick. The nation was 
filled with anxiety. It was decided that the Christmas 
should be a silent one ; there were no carols, bells or 
merry-making. 

Silent Christmases were proclaimed in the Protecto- 
rate of Cromwell. The festival was altogether abolished, 
and the display of the emblems of the Nativity was held 
to be seditious. 

The change was most notable in London. There was 
silence on the Strand. The church bells were still. St. 
Paul lifted its white roofs over the Thames, and West- 
minster Abbey its towers, but the tides of happy people 
in holiday attire no more poured in and out of those 
ancient fanes. The holly and ivy no more appeared in 
the windows of the rich and the poor. The Yule fires 
were not kindled, nor the carols sung. 


88 


NO CHRISTMAS ! NO CHRISTMAS ! 


Bells indeed rung out on the frosty air, but how dif- 
ferent from the chimes of old ! They were the hand-bells 
of the heralds in simple garb passing from street to street 
and smiting the air and crying out: 

“ No Christmas ! No Christmas ! ” 

Heads filled the windows and figures the doors. 
Crowds stopped on the corners of the streets and in the 
squares. The cry went on : 

“No Christmas ! No Christmas ! ” 

It smote the hearts of those who loved the old ways 
and customs. But the spirit of the time was not lost. 
In the silence of the long procession of English festivals, 
the law of Christ was not the less obeyed. It was a 
period of great morality and fruitful piet}^ A period 
when the nation was conscientious and strong. The 
Star of Bethlehem was still shining. 

A great change followed the Restoration. The Christ- 
mas bells rung out once more. The waits again sung 
their carols at the gates of the old feudal halls. There 
were merry-makings under the evergreens. It was at 
one of the Court Christmases of these years that Charles 
knighted a loin of beef, and gave it the name of “ Sir 
Loin.” The festival in the days of this “ merrie monarch ” 
became a revel, after the Puritan silence. 



NO (:iIRISTMAS! NO CHRISTMAS !” — IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 





t 





\ 



■ V 


t 

. ^ 


it 





fr 


t 


A 




.-m. ^ - 


I 


i 

i 


t 


T 

V 


• • 


I 


« 


-% 


!• 


i 





► 


ii» ■•^ 

«-4 





II 



V 


15 


# 


I 

4 


rr 





; 






1 



1 


i' 


I 











• 4 -. 



ih 


t 











“’TWAS CHRISTMAS ON THE DELAWARE; 


TN abbeys green that ring and chime, 

^ In castles gray that blaze in air, 

In palgraves’ halls, in Rhenish rooms. 

In Rome’s old temples’ odorous glooms. 

Are song and mirth — ’tis Christmas time — 
’Tis Christmas on the Delaware.” 

He spake — no star was in the sky — 

He saw the misty torches glare. 

He heard the ice floes grind the shores. 

He heard the beat of muffled oars, 

He heard the sea-gull’s startled cry ; 

’Twas Christmas on the Delaware. 

He once had heard the dual towers 
Of Lincoln ring ; St. Botolph bear 
Its signal message to the seas ; 

And sung ’neath ivied lattices 
And shared the grace of festal hours ; 

’Twas Christmas on the Delaware. 

91 


92 


“ ’tWAS CHRISTMAS ON THE DELAWARE.” 


Now — ’mid the swirl of snow and sleet, 

He saw the serried torches flare, 

And ice-mailed men with silent tread. 

The Minute Men of Marblehead, 

Move past like ghosts — no war drums beat — 
’Twas Christmas on the Delaware. 

He was a parson, and he dreamed 
As bent his head in silent prayer. 

Of singing skies and Ephrata ; 

Dark was the night without a star. 

And yet faith’s star above him gleamed — 
’Twas Christmas on the Delaware. 

“ O men, ye may not know the way 
Amid the wind and frozen air; 

But forward move, and dare the tide — 

If not the way, ye know your Guide, 

Though drums beat not, nor bugles play ” — 
’Twas Christmas on the Delaware. 

The foe, his Christmas revel kept, 

Lay down ; his torches ceased to flare — 

He heard the north wind trump and blow. 

He heard the mad rush of the snow, 

And closely drew his cloak, and slept — 

’Twas midnight on the Delaware. 


TVVAS CHRISTMAS ON THE DELAWARE. 


They passed — the white host dared the tide, 
Led only by Faith’s Star of prayer, 

And victory won at dawn of day ; 

And when at night he knelt to pray. 

The parson blessed the Unseen Guide, 

The Pilot of the Delaware. 

O Pilot Star of Faith, whose light 
Illumines life’s celestial air ; 

The Magi’s camels leading on. 

The frozen oars of Washington, 

In cloud as in the azure bright. 

The storm star of the Delaware, 

Thou art the Light that will not set 
As long as human feet shall fare! 

When other lands their tales disclose 
’Mid festive lamps and mistletoes, 

Let not our nation’s heart forget 

The Christmas on the Delaware. 


CHRISTMAS EVE AT SANTA F£. 


GENOESE mariner believes himself born to 



^ ^ carry the gospel of Christ to an unknown people 
and an undiscovered world, a world lying in the myste- 
rious waters of the West. He travels from city to city 
seeking a powerful patron, until at Santa Fe in the south 
of Europe takes place the memorable meeting with the 
king and queen of Spain. 

With an equipment of three ships he looses from 
Palos and sails to the mysterious waters whose secret 
shores no eye has seen. Golden days come and go; 
nights of calm, and new stars. Near midnight on the 
eleventh of October, 1492, he sees alight in the far hori- 
zon, knows his destiny accomplished, is sure God has 
fulfilled the prophetic meaning of his name — Cohimbus, 
the seeking dove. Morning comes ; the New World 
stands revealed ; he leaps on shore, unfurls the banner 
and cross of Castile and sings Te Dcums. 

The missionary mariner sails away again. He dis- 
covers Hispaniola, and here he and his followers offer 
the first Christmas devotions in the New World. 


94 



EVE AT SANTA F£. — IN THE SIXTEENTH 






CHRISTMAS EVE AT SANTA F£. 


97 


Santa Fe, on the Rio Grande, was probably the place 
where the first Christmas anthem was sung in our own 
land. Coronado visited the region in search of the Seven 
Cities of Gold almost one hundred years before the May- 
flower sailed into the Christmas-tide storm of Province- 
town Bay. The Franciscan missionaries soon followed. 

How poetic must have been the first Christmases in 
the new-born town! The mission church is surrounded 
with mountains whose summits are covered with eternal 
snow. The sun of the fitful December day goes down 
leaving every peak a colossal monument of light and 
splendor. Evening’s curtains fall. It is vespers. Down 
the light ladders of the pueblos come the descendants 
of a race unknown, and make their way to the church. 
Music tells the tale of the Virgin and the Child. Then 
arises the Gloria, and it floats out, like a breath from 
the Bethlehem angels over the mighty solitudes that are 
to become the habitations of the dominant race of the 
world. The moon rises over the mountains and turns 
into whiteness pueblos and chapel. In the bright air 
stands the mystic sign of the cross like a shadow, and 
there ascends heavenward in the silence the sweet words, 
in the Latin tongue, “ On earth, peacel' The star that 
shone over Bethlehem and the nations of the East, has 
risen upon the West. 


IN THE CABIN OF THE MAYFLOWER, 
A. D. 1620. 


O the Christmas Days of the New World begin. 



Champlain died in the Castle of St. Louis, Que- 
bec, on Christmas Day. The French Christians cele- 
brated the day at Port Royal, Canada, and in all the 
settlements of New France. 

The Christmas of the Mayflower was a doubtful and 
dreary day — a day of toil and hardship. Christmas 
night brought a storm of high wind and rain, the vessel 
tossed, and although Puritans in sentiment and life, the 
Pilgrims must at the evening Bible-reading, have thought 
of the sweet chimes of Lincoln, the white-crowned 
towers of the brightly-lighted English fanes, and the 
glad household festivities of the home-country. 

In the Chronicles of the Pilgrims may be found the 
following extract : 

Munday the 25th day we went on shore to fell some timber, some to rive (hew), 
and some to carry. So no man rested all that day. 

Munday the 25th, being Christmas Day, we began to drink water aboard, but 
at night the Master caused us to have some Eeere, and so on board we had diverse 
times now and then some Beere, but on shore none at all. 



TN THE CABIN OF THE MAYFLOWER, A. D. l620. 




1 




IN THE CABIN OF THE MAYFLOWER. 


lOI 


The Pilgrims were severely temperate, but on the 
rocking ship, with the wind beating against, and the rain 
freezing upon the masts, the Master of the ship, his 
heart warming with the memory of the Merry Christ- 
mases of Old England, proffered to his stern and sorrow- 
ful passengers the best cheer he had at command. To 
this, it would seem, Carver, Bradford, Winslow, and 
Standish did not object, although they would not allow 
their men to pass the Christmas in idleness and ease, 
when some of the men asked for a rest on the ancient 
holiday. We may imagine the scene under the swing- 
ing ship-lamp of that tempestuous night, and we must 
feel a thrill of friendliness and gratitude towards the 
Master of the vessel in whose heart stirred the Christmas 
sentiment, even if it could find no other expression than 
a draught of “ beere.” 

There were dark and silent Christmases in the times 
of the Puritans. But the natural joy and glad observ- 
ance of the gladdest event in the annals of earth soon 
began to grow ; and now under the light of the Bethle- 
hem Star which rose eighteen centuries ago, all we in 
the wide West keep Christmas. 

Shine on forever, O Star ! 


THE CHRISTMAS HYMN OF COLUMBUS IN 
THE NEW WORLD. 1492. 


QALVE Regina, 

The world is at rest; 
Salve Regina, 

The waves are at rest. 
Salve Regina, 

On land and on sea. 

We are exiles from home. 
But not exiles from thee. 

Salve, O Salve, 

Bright Star of the Angels, 
Salve, O Salve, 

Bright Star of the Sea ; 
Wherever we roam. 

On the land or the ocean. 
We never, no, never. 

Are exiles from thee. 
Salve, Regina ! 


02 


CHRISTMAS HYMN OF COLUMBUS. 


lO 


Salve Regina, 

The world is at rest. 

Salve, O Salve, 

Bright Star of the West, 
Still “Ave ” and “ Ave ” 

We sino: on the tide ; 

Still help our endeavor. 

Still be thou our guide. 

Salve, O Salve, 

Bright Star of the Angels, 
Salve, O Salve, 

Bright Star of the Sea ; 
Wherever we roam. 

On the land or the ocean. 
We never, no, never, 

Are exiles from thee. 

Salve, Regina. 


THE PILGRIMS’ EASTER LILY. 


HERE was a Soldiers’ Fair in session at the 



^ always busy Horticultural Hall in Boston. It 
was full of enterprises for collecting money, and among 
the features was a floral booth, attended by some bright 
young people, at which the public were invited to vote 
for a National Flower. Other nations have national 
flowers ; England had her Roses, and has her Thorn ; 
France has her Fleur-de-lis, Scotland her Thistle, and 
Ireland her Shamrock ; our country has as yet expressed 
no preference — what shall the flower be } 

The pretty attendants at the booth wore each the 
flower of her choice. The English rose, the French 
lily, the Scotch thistle and the Irish clover were so pre- 
sented, but each received only a few ballots. The 
favored candidates were the Mayflower, the golden-rod, 
and the fleur-de-souverance (the forget-me-not). The 
golden-rod was elected and became the princely plume 
of the day. 

One of the young ladies who presided at the fragrant 
booth seemed much disappointed at the unhistoric 
result. “ It should have been the flower of the little 


104 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


105 

Pilgrim Republic at Plymouth,” she said. “ That would 
have had some significance, like the Glastonbury Thorn 
on Weary-All-Hill ; Plymouth is our Isle of Avallon.” 

The girl, whom we will call Mary Cushman, had evi- 
dently been well instructed by the Young People’s 
Course of Lectures in the Old South Church. Her his- 
torical remark seemed lost on the others, who only knew 
in a general way that the Glastonbury Thorn stood for 
early Christianity in England, and that the Isle of 
Avallon was the scene of the most heroic and pictur- 
esque of the King Arthur legends. 

“ The Mayflower,” she continued, with feeling, “ was 
the Easter Lily of the Pilgrims ; the flower of promise 
that brought them hope.” 

“ But,” said one of her companions, “ the Pilgrims did 
not observe Easter, and I imagine that they cared as 
little for flowers of any kind. They were men of 
immense consciences and little hearts. What sentiment 
would the simple Mayflower have had for them ? Just 
look now at that doughty old precisioner. Miles Stand- 
ish,” pointing to a picture of the Duxbury Captain on 
the wall. Mary looked, and her friend lightly added : 


“ ‘ A primrose by the river’s brim 
A yellow primrose was to him. 
And it was nothing more.’ ’’ 


io6 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


“ Let me tell you to-night one of our family tradi- 
tions,” said Mary. “ It may change your mind.” 

“ You are a descendant of Mary Allerton, I have 
heard,” said the other. “ The name is a pretty one, and 
I know that the great gathering of her descendants about 
her grave a few years ago was a very poetic event,” she 
added. 

“ Precisely. It is of Mary Allerton that I have a 
legend to tell,” said Mary. 

That evening Mary Cushman related the legend to her 
friend. 

It was a bright morning in the early spring of 1621, 
The sun rose warm, and the blue waters under a clear 
sky stretched away along the pine-clouded neck of land 
now called Cape Cod, but then known as Cape Mala- 
barre, or Malabarre Bay. 

“ Let us go out and hear the robins,” said Bar- 
tholomew Allerton to his sister. “ These robins are 
not like ours in England, but after a winter of noth- 
ing but storms, hunger, disease and death, I am grate- 
ful enough to see anything bright, or to hear any 
cheerful sounds.” 

The two went out of the little log house and walked 
to the top of Cole’s Hill. They were there joined by 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


107 


one of the officers of the Mayflower^ who was a relative 
of the Allertons. 

The Hill lay in the warm sunshine, covered with green 
grain. Half of the Pilgrims had died during the winter, 
and their graves had been made here, and the place had 
been sown with grain early so as to hide the burial spots 
from the Indians. Here almost daily there had been 
silent funerals under a cold, gray sky and often amid 
wind and snow. Here slept lovely Rose Standish ; here 
the father and mother of lonely Mary Chilton, and here 
was the recent grave of the noble wife of Winslow. 

“ It makes my heart turn sick to pass this field,” said 
the sailor. “ But we shall sail for England in a few days ; 
this will be my last Sunday in port. I hope never again 
to see an English colony landed amid winter snows to 
die of hunger and hardship.” 

“ It is over now,” said Mary Allerton. “ There is a 
wonderful brightness in the air, and see the hazels ! ” 

“ What Sunday is this, Mary } ” asked the sailor. 

“ They call it Easter Sunday in England. Elder 
Brewster might speak of it as the Sunday of the Pass- 
over here.” 

“ Easter Sunday, Mary ! I can fancy that I hear the 
old bells of England all ringing, and see the happy groups 
tripping gaily along to the open churches with flowers. 


io8 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


Mary, would you not like to return with me in the May- 
flower? Both you and your sister Remembrance?” 

“ My father would never consent,” said Mary. 

“ I am not so sure of that. He should see that it 
would be best. We have relatives who are rich, and who 
would give you an education. Think of a girl like you 
growing up in a wilderness, or dying and being buried 
like an animal in a wheat field ! Mary, who in the wide 
world will ever know of those who sleep there, or care 
aught for their lives or their graves ? ” 

The young officer pointed back to Cole’s Hill that 
they were leaving. Mary Allerton turned, and her eye 
followed his finger. 

“ Who ? ” he repeated. 

Tears filled her eyes. “ Perhaps I will live,” she said 
gently. “ Perhaps I will live if I stay, and perhaps they 
did not come here and suffer and die in vain. The 
future will tell. We know they died in the faith.” 

“ Out upon such graybeard’s cant, Mary! ” interrupted 
her cousin with vexation. “ In England it is certain 
that you would have a rich home and an education. 
You might live to be old, and you would be happy and 
respected. I am going to talk with your father, Mary, 
and ask him to let you return. May I ? ” 

“ Oh, Ralph, let me think of it. Let me think of it 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. IO9 

alone, and see what my heart seems to say to me. I 
will speak with you again about it after church.” 

“ After church ! ” said the sailor with a laugh. “ Do 
you call that a church ? ” 

His finger swung round in the air, and Mary’s blue 
eyes followed it. There stood the little log meeting- 
house, with its thatched roof and defenses. 

“ Hark, Mary ! ” he went on. 

“ What ? ” 

“ Don’t you hear the Easter chimes of Lincoln, all 
ringing ? ” 

Mary felt the sting of the sarcasm. “ Oh, Ralph, what 
if that little log church should prove the mother of hun- 
dreds of churches — it may be, if we are true ! All 
things are possible.” 

“ Mary, you are a fool.” 

“ But, Ralph, mother always said that she was glad 
that she came.” 

Her eyes filled with tears again. Mary Allerton, the 
mother, slept near Rose Standish in the field of green 
grain. They had not spoken of that as they had passed 
the place. 

“ Why was she glad, Mary ? ” 

“ She said that she trusted the future. It all would 


end well 


I lO 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 



“ And she lies there,” interrupted the young man. 
They passed slowly down the hill. The bluebirds’ 
notes were heard in the air. The robins sang. The 
woodpeckers tapped the hollow trees. There were 

golden cowslips 
in the pools, 
and an odor of 
sassafras was in 
the air. 

They came to 
the woods of 
oak, pine, holly 
and hazel. Un- 
der some pine 
boughs there 
was a long line 
of snow, the 
remnant of a 


THE FIRST MAYFLOWER. 


great winter 
snowdrift. 


Mary Allerton suddenly stooped to the ground. 

“ See, Ralph, there ! the Mayflower ! ” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ In the snow.” 

The three young people stopped in silence. There, 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


I I I 


lining the remains of the snowdrift, was a long fringe of 
flowers whose odor filled the air. 

I must pick some,” said Mary, “ and take them with 
me to meeting. I wish that my mother could have 
seen them before she died. These flowers speak.” 

The young officer laughed. “ You forget that you 
are a Separatist, Mary. Flowers do not belong to your 
church.” 

But Mary gathered her bunches of Mayflowers and 
they went back. The great guns of the Common House 
rose above them. Feeble forms came out of the little 
log houses, followed by young people and children. 
They passed along toward the meeting-house to hear 
Elder Brewster preach on that Easter morning, the young 
officer turning away as they came near. 

“What shall I say to Ralph after the sermon asked 
Mary of her brother. 

“ What you like, sister. I will tell you privately that 
I shall one day return to England. Follow your own 
heart” 

They met Mary Chilton at the door of the meeting- 
house. 

“ Mayflowers ? ” said the motherless girl. 

“ Yes ; I will divide with you,” said Mary Allerton. 

The two girls, Mary Allerton and Mary Chilton, both 


I 12 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


of whom had been bereft of their mothers during the 
season of disease, went into the church together, and sat 
down side by side. It was the Mary Chilton who 
is famed to have first landed on Plymouth Rock. 

How simple was the room in which this religious 
service on Easter Sunday was held ! How different 
from Lincoln Cathedral with its crown of towers that 
these worshipers used to see in the spring air, melodi- 
ous with bells ; or the high tower of St. Botolph’s Church 
in old Boston, holding its lantern over the sea, or even 
the old exhortation room in the ancient archiepiscopal 
palace in Scrooby ! The seats were split logs, the roof 
was forest grass, and there was no grand pulpit or choir. 
Half of the Pilgrims who met there at the first service 
were now gone: the Chiltons, Rose Standish, Mary 
Allerton, the mother, Elizabeth Winslow. 

There was one hymn for an Easter anthem, to those 
who remembered Easter. It began : 

“ God is the refuge of His saints, 

In straits a present aid.” 

The clerk led the simple tune. The second stanza 
was touching and tender : 

“ There is a stream whose peaceful flow 
Supplies God’s city fair.” 



HE WHO MAKES THE MAYFLOWERS TO BLOOM AMID THE SNOW WILL CARE FOR ME. 











THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


II5 

The door stood partly open letting in the sunlight. 
Without, the robins were singing, as they always sing in 
the warm light of the April days. The Mayflowers, 
under the thick mantles of Mary Allerton and Mary 
Chilton, filled the room with fragrance, already odorous 
with decaying pine boughs. 

Elder Brewster arose, saintly and patriarchal. The 
sermon was long. The subject was The Hebrew Spies 
who from a want of faith brought an evil report of the land 
of Canaan. No allusion was made to Easter in the ser- 
mon, but hope was in it all. 

“ This week,” said the clerk, after the discourse, “ opens 
the doors of promise. The birds are singing, the flowers 
are prophesying. Last week God sent the great Indian 
Chief to us, and we concluded a treaty of peace. I feel 
that for us Christ is risen indeed, and that the earth is 
blossoming under his feet. He comes to us in the May- 
flowers.” 

The words were like those of Robinson, the old Ley- 
den pastor. Mary Allerton caught their spirit, as she 
had already caught the like prophecy from the Mayflowers 
themselves. 

The service over, Ralph met her at the door. It was 
high noon, and the sun was like summer. 

“ Shall I talk with your father, Mary ? ” 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


I l6 

“ About returning? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ No, Ralph, no.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ The Mayflowers say no. My life shall bloom in the 
snow, like them, or I will die, like my mother.” 

“ And never hear the old Easter bells of England 
again ? ” 

“ Ralph, I believe that the bells will one day ring on 
these hills if we are true. To have a true heart is more 
than life, and to die for others is to live.” She was 
only a girl, but she spoke like a woman. The great sea 
rolled in the distance before her, and in the distance, too, 
lay the Mayflower in the clear sunny air. 

The two looked toward it, the young girl and the 
sailor — Ralph’s finger pointed to the ship that lay like 
a skeleton on the steel-blue bosom of the bay, with 
furled sails and flagless masts. 

“No, Ralph, no! I cannot tell what may befall me, 
but He who makes the Mayflowers to bloom amid the 
snow will care for me, and do with me as pleaseth Him 
best. I shall never hear the Easter bells of Lincoln or 
old Boston ring again, nor breathe the English violets or 
the thorn, but the Mayflower is with us here, and the 
bells of God will ring on these hills if we are true ; one 


THE PILGRIMS EASTER LILY. 


II7 



day they will ring. Mark my words, one day they will 
ring ; and I will never carry away from my mother’s 
grave any evil report of the land, not even by example.” 

They parted. In a few days the Mayflower spread 
her white sail 
and lifted her 
flag, and faded 
away like a bird 
in the sea. They 
watched the dis- 
appearing sail 
with tears, those 
Pilgrims, from the 
Screen or raves of 

O O 

Cole’s Hill. 

The Pilgrims 
daily gathered 
the Mayflowers. 

They could hard- 
ly tell why. The 
blossom seemed 
to mingle with 
their thoughts of the dead, to prophesy good to them 
and to comfort them. The maples reddened, the yellow 
cowslips flooded all the running streams; the blue 


THE MONUMENT TO MARY ALLERTON. 


Il8 THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 

violets came amid the white, but the Mayflower had a 
meaning to the Pilgrims that was breathed by the fra- 
grance of no other blossoms. They had called it the 
Mayflower from the old English thorn, and they came 
to associate it with the name of the ship that had been 
their cradle and the cradle of the infant nation. 

Years passed. Mary Allerton married and reared a 
noble family. She survived all the Pilgrims of the May- 
flower and died at an age of more than ninety years. 
She lived to see churches rise on all the great hilltops 
and hillsides along the Bay. 

Year by year she watched for the blooming of the 
Mayflower in the snow, and told the tale of the early 
springtime — when that flower had appeared like an 
angel of hope amid the snows at the very borders of 
half the colony’s graves. 

The little Pilgrim republic unconsciously chose the 
Mayflower for their flower ; it meant to them Fidelity. 
It ought to become our national flower. Ought it not? 
It was our father’s rainbow that followed the ark — God’s 
finger of promise that wrote in the snow. 

On September i6, 1858, the descendants of Mary 
Allerton Cushman were gathered around her grave on 
Burial Hill. They came from nearly every State in the 


THE pilgrims’ EASTER LILY. 


II9 

Union. They there uncovered a monument twenty- 
seven feet high, by far the most conspicuous memorial 
in that hallowed spot, to which pilgrimages will forever 
be made. It was a day of bright skies and golden 
leaves. 

The next Sabbath some of her descendants, who had 
remained in Plymouth for a few days, went up on the 
Hill and sat down amid the gray stones and mossy 
mounds. 

The bells began to ring, Plymouth, Duxbury ; in the 
far towns along the Cape, and in a long procession 
beyond the ear, to the great chorus of Boston. They 
were sweeter tones to those ears than the chimes of 
Lincoln or old Boston could ever have been to Mary 
Allerton had she returned. The golden-rod bloomed 
amid the old gravestones ; the Jleur-de-souverance was 
there, but the pilgrims to that old grave thought only of 
the Mayflower that blooms in the snow. 


'S * 




I ( 




'- •< 


'ii - 



»!• 




‘'i M 




/, 



, l ‘ 1 

■* V 




»# -» 


^•J.- 


i ■ ' 


7' 1 <■ 

' V. 


1 

,j» h > 



t» * 


‘If 


'I “ «. 


I ' 


■* II 


• * i ’ ^#rt> J' f rr?'?''-- 



■ 

’ 4 V^> • 

JvA t 

. I'rt ■ 

V 1 

' .*f-* 1'- * ^ - . 

s 

« 


I.‘ ' *4 


U ~ . if t J ■ 

. • ji ,ii ••; t '. . : - ; 


a 


* 

1 

f^ 




m 

^ • 


M- -> 

" • ^ »4 


♦ 


Si 


>. -^irfi/ • (,1 








• * 4 


4 * 



> 


Mm, 


. «■ ,* \ 



\f. t' 


• ^ ,^*- 

\;gy / 4 V 


« >» 


\ 


i , • * ' ^ 

■ iti ^ 


1 < 




•| f 


fi 


^ .;iM 


i t ^ 

f i 


,r '»■* " ^ 


I « 


i i4 ti, f‘'-‘^ i^h"' 

V u'. . >.,'( ’ h*t.. {>• ■'''' ‘ 

)( '.If .VtftT* 



A '■>. . V 

k 


J 

J 


k 



I ' I 


if 

,l 


rjzi 



t ♦ V 




r ^ 

* » t 


* • r 


1 I 


I • 


', j.io^ ' " 'i » 



• 1 ‘f '• Imi 


i/. t.-‘^ 











ih 






'■v> 






> '1 • j %!* * 








f 


%• 


, 'iWi' ^'-5^ . ■ -f 

nL ^"^'-rTViL? 






I iiS 




L* % 






.fl? 




/.vM' 


fc"'L*T. *V 


}4, • 


u /<. 




< 7‘ 






•f . 


*n^ 






5f . •■‘'?> 




4^‘ 


'A>’ 


* <t 




' V 




waiB .■*■"• ' 

‘ ft .; " ' >w ** 






Aw-' '5- + 


r •• i 




iSW 

I ' .‘« '^ 


« ^ 


< : «! 


'mk. 








r>' 


j: ;r^ 





1^ * 


'jju. 








. Q.V 




.**•* ^» • if -J 'i?35SH 






. r<i 




_iJ* 1 *. ^ ^ . -yjM 

‘,f' -src*vi- H 

TL:- *V ^.*1 •HT' * 


Ijrt 


V 


#4* 

• A • “ 




':w 


■<» 








•• ** 






•!3 


fV 


i* 




i . * 


•^ ■ ^ . m 

'S ■ • -f. 


■^t • ."•t’if: 


^ ♦ ■* ' ’ ' 5^ ■ , 




S 


^4 




>> 


v.-w^' »»■.'“ • ■ I »*u'i%> -t ''- w>. -w. . _•-« «■ ^.. 

'.*.* A( * “\ “^ ~ ' •<v.'*i?!r~ ^ • 1^, ’» " V 




Ll^ 




'•u 


♦V 


■- 


6»- 




ii + 






mm 















I 


Vi 


■ii 





